Star Wars: Top Gear
by Agamar Rules The Galaxy
Summary: Tonight, Hobbie Klivian tests out Incom's latest X-wing model! Wes Janson and Tycho Celchu build a light freighter from scratch! And our tame racing pilot tries public transit!
1. Prologue

You know how the worst things in life tend to happen the moment you just start to feel relaxed? Hobbie Klivian's retirement was something like that. Six months of retirement so far, and he had only just gotten over the restlessness typical of a newly retired fighter jock. The last thing Hobbie expected was a holocall from Wes Janson and Tycho Celchu. It wasn't that they never talked anymore. Hobbie had remained in contact with a great number of his war buddies, among them Wes, Tycho, and Wedge Antilles, but their holocalls almost never rang with the "Urgent" tone. He sighed and rose from his couch with a grunt of effort.

'Oh, what now?' he groused. He was just starting to enjoy retirement again after the Second Galactic Civil War. Hobbie stood up to straighten out his clothes and hair before activating the projector on his coffee table. Two men materialized before him, both in casual wear, one wearing an expression of restrained mirth and the other utterly deadpan.

'Wes, Tycho, what's going on?'

Wes Janson was about the same age as Hobbie, but unlike Hobbie, Wes' features remained infuriatingly youthful. How did he do it? 'You didn't get the memo, Hobbie?' Wes looked irritatingly smug today. Something was very definitely wrong.

'No,' Hobbie said, a trace of trepidation creeping into his voice. 'Wes, don't mess with me here. You marked the call as urgent.'

'We're being reactivated,' Tycho said. 'It's back to work for us.'

Hobbie buried his face in his palm. 'Oh, come _on_,' he complained, 'it's only been six months since the war ended. Are you telling me we've got another war on our hands?'

Wes paused to consider his answer. 'Not exactly,' he said with a sheepish expression.

'Are we training rookies again, then?'

'No,' Tycho said. 'I do suspect, however, that it may have something to do with boosting enlistment rates.'

'Alright, what is it, then?'

'Have you ever heard of a certain pokey little piloting show on the Imperial Broadcasting Channel?' Wes asked.

'Yeah,' Hobbie said. 'Why?'

'And do you remember when Alliance command last spoke to us? With the contract?'

'Yeeeeees…?' Hobbie responded slowly. He didn't like where this was going.

Tycho raised an eyebrow. 'Did you ever read the fine print?'

Hobbie shrugged. 'No, I figured it was the usual mumbo jumbo about honorable service and a pardon for opposing Daala and Darth Caedus. Wh—'

And then it hit him like a bull rancor.

'No. _No._ _NO._' Hobbie started putting things together. 'You mean the papers we signed—?'

Wes nodded gravely.

'And the credit chit they gave us-?'

'Oyah,' said Wes, bobbing his head like an Agamarian native.

'Oh no. Oh _no_.' Hobbie looked at them with horror. 'You mean we're really—?'

Wes opened his jacket to reveal a casual tunic underneath. On the shirt, there sat an image of a gear, with a certain piloting program's title written off to its side with a little 'Galactic Alliance' subtitle.

'When do we even start filming?' Hobbie asked, still in shock.

'Tonight,' said Tycho. The Alderaanian general pulled a datapad from a trouser pocket. 'I've taken the liberty of e-mailing you the script for our first episode. Get cleaned up and meet us at Aurek Base in two hours.'

'Tonight!' Wes exclaimed, 'Hobbie Klivian tests out Incom's newest X-wing model. Tycho Celchu and I build a light freighter from scratch! And our tame racing pilot tries public transit!'

Hobbie furrowed his brow. 'Wait, "tame racing pilot"? Who's the fourth guy on our team?'

Wes gave him an arch look. 'Come on, Hobbie. Who do you _think_?'

For the briefest instance, the barest hint of a smile passed Tycho's face. He tapped a couple of buttons on his own holo-projector and displayed the image of a man in full, face-concealing TIE fighter flight gear. 'Some say that the A-Wing was the result of a sordid affair between him and a TIE Fighter. Others say that he hops on one transparisteel leg. All we know is he's called ST-166.'

'I hate that.'

Wes grinned and pulled a stuffed Ewok from somewhere outside the holo-projector's visual range. 'Yub yub, Major Klivian.'


	2. 1: The Saga Begins

'JANSOOOOOOON!'

So far, Wes had to say, filming had gone swimmingly.

'WES, YOU YOB,' Hobbie raged, 'YOUR WALKER'S JUST STEPPED ON THE FRONT END OF MY SPEEDER!'

Wes giggled up in his homemade walker Ugly's cockpit, even as he fiddled with the damn thing's controls. Ah well, if its controls had to break down, they might as well have broken down at Hobbie's expense. The camera crew certainly enjoyed the sight, judging by their inability to keep mirth from their expressions.

'Bloody outstanding, that is,' said Tycho to the camera, 'Captain Crash and Lieutenant Kettch have managed to cock up a caravan challenge not ten minutes out from the starting line. And I can't progress because these pillocks are in the way.'

It sounded like such a simple task: build three personal ground transports using junkyard parts and ten thousand credits, then trek across Telares IV's small jungle continent. Wes had gone with an abomination of a walker, a ramshackle monster built from AT-PT, AT-ST, and construction droid bits. Hobbie chose a modified swamp speeder, fitted with a tow cable and, amazingly, a working refresher. Tycho opted for wheeled scout car to carry their tools, rations, and spare parts. Of course, getting out to fix Wes' walker would be a rather daunting task.

Tycho didn't sound too worried about it, however. He reclined in his seat and popped open a cold drink. 'Normally, I would get out to help Wes and Hobbie fix their machines. But there's a bit of a problem.'

The camera panned over to Tycho's left. As it turned out, the three vehicles sat on a perilously narrow cliffside road.

'If there's one thing that always perplexes me,' Tycho said pensively, 'it's the complete lack of safety railing in this galaxy. No, really, if you look at the Death Star, the innards of a Star Destroyer, Kamino's landing pads-there's no railing anywhere. I mean, really-'

'Okay, we're clear!' yelled Wes from the front end of the convoy. Thank the Force, thought Hobbie. Then they could finish this special, go home, and enjoy the fruits of civilization again. And he wouldn't have to listen to Tycho.

And so they continued, past rolling hills and lush foliage, over rivers and streams, and into the depths of Telares IV's jungles. All the while, Hobbie muttered to the camera.

'Hate this. Hate Wes. Hate this contract. Hate this jungle, hate you all.'

'Good, _good_,' Tycho said on the comm. 'Let the hate flow through you, young Skywalker.'

'Shut it, Tyc-'

'All vehicles, halt,' said Wes. Abruptly, the convoy stopped behind Wes' walker. Hobbie, Tycho, and the camera crew dismounted to see the source of their journey's sudden interruption.

'We've got a collapsed tree,' said Janson, idly swatting the hook-flies swarming around him. 'I can step over it and Hobbie can hover a bit higher, but it's a bit too large for Tycho's rig to cross over. Not to worry, though, because I brought _this_.' Wes climbed back up into his walker's cockpit and pulled out a comically large vibrosaw.

'Oh no,' Hobbie said. 'We're letting him use power tools now?'

Tycho sighed in resignation. 'Just back up and let the manchild do his thing. We'll be through this in a few minutes.'

The saw started with a throaty roar. 'Oh _yes_,' Wes said, '_power_.'

Tycho settled back into his car and took a sip of water. 'Now,' he said to the camera, 'you may be wondering why I went with a groundcar. You see, we're in the middle of a jungle, and speeders and walkers, no matter how well they're built, will always require more maintenance than a groundcar. With all the hostile terrain, it's inevitable that some vital part or other will foul up along the way. Hobbie's repulsor plates will probably need a good thorough look and our intrepid leader will need to keep his walker's joints all fixed up-'

'I AM THE LORD OF HELLFIRE!' roared Janson as he began his grisly work.

'Spare speeder and walker parts are expensive,' Tycho continued. 'This here groundcar? I spent less than half my budget on it. The rest went to my toolkit, bedding, bug nets, and a whole load of spare parts for myself and the other two. Primitive, but well wo-'

'POWEEEEEEER!'

Tycho poked his head out his side window for a moment to yell at Janson. 'Great Space, Wes, it's a harmless tree, not a wampa! Calm down!'

'POWEEEEEEEEEEER!'

The Alderaanian rolled his eyes. 'Get comfy, viewers. I have a feeling Wes is going to enjoy his vibrosaw for a good while longer.'


	3. 2: Podracer Challenge, part 1

The sound of raucous applause still sounded utterly alien to Hobbie. He, Wes, and Tycho stood in the middle of a warehouse-turned-studio, surrounded by a cheering audience, holocams, and a plethora of starfighters they and Rogue Squadron had flown years ago. Well, at least that last detail made him feel at home. In the back, he saw an old T-65, still painted with the classic Rogue Red stripes. Off to the side was a Z-95, probably one of those used during the Rogues' liberation of Coruscant following the Battle of Endor.

Wes gave the crowd a winning grin and welcomed them to this week's episode. 'Good evening, ladies and gentlemen! As you may have heard, podracing has been the subject of a bit of ridicule among modern piloting jockeys. They say it's too easy, too _slow_ to be considered a true and proper race, especially compared to the reflexes you need in a snubfighter.'

'That's right,' Tycho added. 'In fact, you may have heard me, Wes, and Hobbie mocking it every now and then during this show. And that's why the producers gave us a bit of a challenge.'

* * *

'I hate sand,' muttered Hobbie as a production assistant handed him an envelope.

'Is there anything you _don't_ hate?' Tycho asked.

'Let's just get this challenge started,' Wes said. 'Go on, read the envelope.'

Hobbie did. 'Alright, alright. "Since you three are so cocky about the ease of planetary piloting, we, the producers, have a challenge for you. Your first task is to build a podracer of your own for less than ten thousand credits each. We have provided the three of you with your own translator droids to facilitate the process." Wait, how are we supposed to do that?'

Wes shrugged. 'Well, we're in Mos Eisley, so there are probably a few junk or speeder dealers somewhere.'

'Yeah, and they're all Toydarians, so keep your credits close.'

'Hobbie,' Tycho replied, 'this is a family-friendly program. Try to save the racism for after the watershed. Besides, not _all_ Toydarians are like that. Right?'

And so they set off into the hustle and bustle of Mos Eisley. Hobbie went straight for the nearest junkyard, while Tycho and Wes split up to check out the myriad stalls and shops.

'No, no,' Tycho said to a particularly pushy Toydarian, 'a twin-ion engine! The twin-ion! None of that fancy-pants scavenged Naboo crap!'

'THEN CRAZY HATTO WILL GET YOU A DISCOUNT TIE, CHUMMER. DON'T YOU WORRY, I HAVE GOOD, GOOD DEALS. WAIT HERE, I'LL FETCH YOU ONE TWIN-ION ENGINE, VERY GOOD CONDITION.'

The Alderaanian sighed wearily. 'Well, that was a thing. I wonder how Wes and Hobbie are doing.'

* * *

Wes stepped out of his store of choice whistling merrily. His receipt, several meters long, trailed behind him as he pushed a cart full of scrap and parts out the door. The shopkeeper, a female Twi'lek, motioned for him to call her as he exited. He gave her a wink and set off to build his podracer. Hobbie, meanwhile, had found his junkyard.

'No,' he said slowly, 'I won't go any higher than nine thousand.'

The Jawa shook its head. 'Too low! Too low! You buy scrap, twelve thousand credit!'

Hobbie mopped his brow. 'Look,' he said with exasperation, 'I've seen good engines and power converters. These are crap. _These_ wouldn't last five seconds in vacuum, let alone on the Mos Espa Circuit.'

'You lie, offworlder! Good engines! Good power converter! Look! Look! Piece of X-Wing! Buy!'

For a moment, Hobbie entertained the idea of hitting the Jawa with a stun bolt from his blaster. It was tempting, certainly. Too tempting.

* * *

Some time later, the lads reconvened at a workshop near the Mos Eisley spaceport, where they immediately got to work.

'Now, viewers,' said Tycho, 'you'll notice I managed to buy two mint condition Sienar Fleet Systems twin-ion engines, along with some spare TIE solar panels. Because I've got the gear necessary to charge my racer up with solar power, I get to spend less on fuel.' He tapped one of the ion engines affectionately. 'These babies are ridiculously efficient. It'll take me maybe an hour to get my ride fully charged. I'll also be able to cut down on construction time, since I already know a thing or two about TIE construction.'

Meanwhile, Wes fumbled with his toolkit. 'Arc welder, no. Screwdriver, no. Sonic screwdriver, overrated. No. Bolt cutters, no. Where is it, where is—oh. Oh _yes_.' Janson raised his weapon of choice and smirked at his camera droid. 'The good old hammer. _This_ is going to see some use.'

Hobbie rolled his eyes while he observed his colleagues' work. 'Captain Hammer at his best, ladies and gentlemen. While Wes goes off acting like an idiot and Mr. Imperial Sleeper Agent messes with his TIE engines, I went for a few classic pieces. Here, you can see I have the control system of the FG 8T8-Twin Block 2 Special, which was known for above-average turning and braking power. The Block 2 Special, however, was quite slow and awkward to fly, so I decided to switch its engines out for a more conventional layout and some engines with a bit more oomph. Here, I've got industrial-grade durasteel cables and a pair of Quadrijet 4-Barrel 904E Engines. It was these engines that won the Boonta Eve Classic twice before the Clone Wars. I know for a fact that these engines will win our little challenge today as well.'

Eight hours later, the podracers were ready for a drive. Wes, Tycho, and Hobbie lined theirs up outside the warehouse. Sure enough, the presence of three freshly painted podracers and a small swarm of camera droids attracted quite a crowd.

Wes raised an eyebrow at Tycho's racer. 'Tycho, is that a TIE podracer?'

'Well, just the twin-ion engines and the solar panels,' he replied. 'The lack of peripheral vision makes the ball cockpit a rather unwise choice.'

Wes turned to one of the camera droids. 'General Horton Salm, if you're watching this, you were right. Tycho _is_ a secret Imperial.'

'Hey, if we're going to podrace, I might as well get a pair of the fastest small engines in the galaxy. Unlike you, I _grew up_ with speed. And I didn't have to pay for fuel, which let me pay for _this._' Tycho reached into his podracer's cockpit and pressed a button on the dash.

Hobbie's jaw dropped. 'You turned your podracer into a _convertible_?'

'Oh yes. Only the most stylish of rides for a true son of Alderaan. So what did you build, gents?'

Hobbie slapped the flank of his control pod. 'This is a blast from the past. I managed to snag a whole load of pre-Clone Wars classics at discount rates. It's got the handling of a Block 2, the acceleration and speed of a pair of Quadrijets, and the weight of a feather.'

'Only because you stripped away so much of the hull plating,' said Wes.

'What? It's a Block 2 Super Leggera, Wes.'

'Sure, and just wait until you get a rock in your intakes.'

'Okay, smart guy, let's see how you did.'

Wes chuckled smugly. 'Alright, so I took some inspiration from those quad-engined racers. I took four 620C racing engines—the ones Anakin Skywalker used to win the Boonta Eve Classic some years back—and stuck them onto a modified Y-wing cockpit. I've removed the laser cannons, of course, which left me with the room to add an aerodynamic wedge to the front end of the cockpit. I ditched ion cannon, torpedo tubes, and other bits as well to save on weight and I replaced the astromech compartment…with a minifridge.'

'You're going to be podracing drunk,' deadpanned Tycho.

'What sober man would _ever_ fly one of these deathtraps?'

'He has a point,' said Hobbie.

'And on that bombshell,' said Tycho, 'let's cut to commercial.'


	4. 3: Podracer Challenge, part 2

Are you in need of a droid? Is work on the moisture farm too much for one man and his farm boy nephew? Then head on down to Mos Eisley and buy your very own personal mechanical assistant!

Mos Eisley Robotics! These _are_ the droids you're looking for!

* * *

As Tatooine's second sun rose over the horizon, the lads awoke to meet the production team. One of them stepped forth and handed Tycho a datapad. Tycho hit the power switch and began to read the message's contents.

'"Though you have succeeded in creating your podracers, you have not yet been blooded as true podracer pilots. Your next task is to take your racers and travel to the Mos Espa Circuit, where each of you shall complete a lap while your two companions manage the track's many challenges and traps."'

Even Wes looked uneasy. 'Challenges and traps.'

'Yep,' said Tycho, who seemed utterly at ease. 'The Hutts have upped the difficulty a bit ever since Anakin Skywalker won. At least one straightaway has automated ion turrets buried along the sides. The local Tusken tribe has also been handed some fresh new weapons to terrorize pilots.'

'Whoa, wait a minute,' Hobbie said, 'Tuskens? You mean they'll be around to shoot at us?'

Tycho shrugged. 'According to the producers, they've been instructed to use only stun bolts on their weapons today. They were particularly amenable to the idea of terrorizing foreigners, even if they couldn't kill them. Or at least that's what the translator droid told me.'

* * *

'HROOOOONK HURK HURRRRRR HROOOONK.'

'Master Tycho,' said the battered protocol droid, 'I believe this Tusken chief has agreed to the arrangements. Though he is upset at the no kill rule, he will gladly take potshots at your fellow idiot aliens.'

'You "believe"?' Tycho raised an eyebrow.

'Well, it's either that or he will eviscerate you, Master Klivian, and Master Janson and use your blood to flavor tomorrow night's stew.'

Tycho coughed uncomfortably. 'Well. Let's just hope it's the former. Otherwise, this will be one very short show.'

* * *

With the twin suns at their zenith, the three podracers set off across the Dune Sea towards Mos Espa. The racers, arranged in a wedge formation, left great plumes of sand in their wake. They passed moisture farms and ranches, canyons and the massive skeletons of krayt dragons and other beasts long forgotten.

'You know, this isn't actually so bad,' Wes said. 'It's a bit slower than I'd like-and that's something coming from a guy who flew Y-wings-but Tatooine has some truly magnificent vistas. You don't get sights like these on Coruscant or Corellia with all their gray towers and urban filth. I mean, look at _that_.' He gestured to his right and turned his dashboard camera. To Wes' starboard stood a number of rock formations, from colossal arches to great cylindrical pillars. In the center of the formation was an oasis, protected by shade and surrounded by animals and greenery. Carved into the cliff face behind it was a statue of a bipedal creature with four arms and an elongated head, its features eroded by the passage of time.

To Wes' port side, Hobbie reclined in his seat and adjusted his shemagh. 'Oh yes, this is a proper podracer, the Block 2 _Supper Leggera_. The handling is great, the brakes all work perfectly, and just _listen _to that engine roar. This. Is. Incredible, ladies and gents. Well, it would be if it wasn't for this infernal heat. And the sand. He spat a wad of sandy phlegm out the side of his control pod for emphasis. 'I'm surprised this thing has lasted what with all the sa-' Then his starboard thruster sputtered. 'Oh no.'

'Gents, I've got a warning light. I've got to stop for a bit.'

'Alright then,' said Tycho over the comm, 'have fun.'

As dictated by _Top Gear_ tradition, Wes and Tycho sped off to their destination, leaving Hobbie and the production crew to deal with his mechanical problems. With great caution, Hobbie opened up one of his Quadrijets. 'Ye gods!' he exclaimed. A small stream of sand poured out from his engines. 'Not only have I got sand in one of my thrusters, it looks like my podracer has actually had diarrhea.' Indeed, an unsightly brown liquid was splattered across the engine's innards.

'Okay,' he said to the camera. 'Super Leggera wasn't a very good idea after all. I think I know how to fix this, though.'

* * *

Several hours later, Hobbie pulled into the garage of the Mos Espa racing circuit. Wes and Tycho seemed quite content to watch their sandblasted comrade from the comfort of their lawn chairs. They gave him a space golf clap as he dismounted.

'What's with the droid?' Hobbie asked, gesturing to the silver bipedal model in the back corner.

'Oh, that?' said Wes. 'That was there before we got here. Doesn't work properly, though.'

'Statemen-en-en-ent,' it buzzed, tightening its grip on its blaster rifle, 'I will terminate-terminate-terminate-terminate-destroy all meatbags.'

'I wouldn't worry too much about it,' Tycho said. 'Oh, and Wes and I drew straws to see who would go first. You got the short straw.'

Hobbie groaned. 'I hate you guys.'

Wes and Tycho picked up the bags sitting by their chairs and hopped into the production team's speeder. They waved jauntily at him before driving off to their designated spots on the track. 'I have a bad feeling about this,' said Hobbie to the camera. 'But you know what? Screw it. Let's do this.'

He jumped into his podracer and hit the ignition switch. With a mighty roar, its engines lit, and Hobbie took his place at the starting line. 'Alright, set to sport mode, cutting maneuvering safeties, and activating launch control.' He revved his engines. The lights descended. Three. Two. One.

Hobbie's podracer rocketed forward-a nearly perfect start. He took his racer through the circuit's tight corners and rocky straightaways. He dodged the ion bolts and rocky outcrops flawlessly, taking no damage in the process. 'Right,' he said to himself, 'You can do this, Hobbie. You can do this. You are a leaf on the wind. Leaf. On. The wind. Watch how I-'

A blaster bolt shot off one of his rear-view mirrors.

'AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA-'

* * *

Wes giggled as he resighted his sniper rifle. The Tuskens also seemed to enjoy themselves as they took potshots at Hobbie's podracer. The mesa rang with the snap-crack of blaster fire. 'Hobbie, stop sideslipping so I can shoot you properly.'

* * *

'JANSOOOOOON!' Hobbie raged. 'CURSE YOUR SUDDEN BUT INEVITABLE BETRAYAL!'

'Stop being such a baby,' Wes said on the comm. 'They're set to stun.'

'STUNNING THE DRIVER MEANS CRASHING THE RACER, YOU NERF HERDER!'

'Oh, stop whining, Captain Crash. Just use your bacta sponsorships.'

As if to punctuate his sentence, Wes blasted off Hobbie's other rear-view mirror.

'Hate sand. Hate this planet. Hate you. Hate-is that a Y-wing?'

Surely enough, it was. The BTL-S3 followed Hobbie's podracer perfectly and inverted, allowing the ion cannons to fire at him unobstructed.

* * *

'Take us just a smidge to port,' Tycho said to ST-166, the team's tame racing pilot. ST-166 was clad, as always, in full TIE flight gear painted a stark white. Tycho, in his standard Alliance orange flight suit, manned the Y-wing's gunner seat.

'There we go,' he muttered. 'Firing.'

Hobbie's high-pitched yelps of panic were music to his ears. And to the audience's.


	5. 4: Podracer Challenge, part 3

Soon enough, it was Wes' turn at the starting line.

'Alright,' he said to the camera, 'the plan here is to power down this whole course so I can get through these hazards as quickly as possible.' He revved his podracer's engines as the lights ticked down.

Three.

Two.

One.

'POWEEEEEEEER!' he yelled as he rocketed forward. 'By the space gods, this thing is incredible!'

Wes sped down a straightaway, his sheer speed causing the skin of his face to ripple and pull back. 'THIS IS AMAZING. I FEEL LIKE I'M ENTERING DIET HYPERSPACE, I'M GOING SO FAST. MY EPIGLOTTIS IS FULL OF BEES!'

He passed the minefield, the explosives bouncing up out of the sand far too late to catch him. 'AND I'M STILL ACCELERATING. I SHOULD CALL THIS MACHINE THE PALPATINE BECAUSE IT HAS UNLIMITED POWEEEEEE-'

* * *

A hail of blaster bolts interrupted Janson's glee. On the Tusken mesa, Tycho poured another bottle of coolant onto the barrel of his borrowed E-web.

'Tycho,' said Wes on the comm, 'is that an E-web?'

'Yes,' Tycho replied, holding down the trigger as he did so. He turned to one of the Tuskens beside him and yelled, 'Fire!'

The Tusken Raider complied, loosing an ion missile from the launcher on his shoulder.

* * *

Wes squinted as he saw a slight flame in the distance. 'Is that-no. No. Nonononono-'

The ion missile exploded mere centimeters from the podracer, catching one of Wes' port side engines in the blast radius.

'Oh, sithspit,' he said. 'No, no, I can still hold this!' Another ion missile sped towards him, detonating harmlessly to starboard as he jinked out of the way. As Wes sped out of blaster and missile range, he saw another potential problem above him. It was the shadow of a light courier shuttle, sleek and elongated with a pair of bulbous engines on the aft. He could plainly see the words, _Raven's Claw_, on the hull.

'Please tell me that's not who I think it is.'

'Oh, that's who you think it is,' Hobbie said on the comm.

'What.'

'He owed me a favor.'

Wes pulled past a great stone arch a minute later and saw that the ship had landed. He could faintly make out a humanoid shape in the distance waving at him.

'No,' Wes muttered.

Then he saw a bright blue light ignite on one of the shape's hands.

'No, no, noooo.'

'Hey, Wes,' said another voice on the comm, 'Hobbie asked me to pay you a visit.'

Wes' uneasy expression turned into one of abject terror. 'Ha! Ha ha! Jedi, uh, aren't supposed to kill when they can help it, right? You wouldn't slice me up, would you?'

Kyle Katarn snorted. 'Nah. Hobbie's exact words were, "scare him a bit".'

Mandalore the Bearded leaped into action. Wes Janson screamed like a little girl. Hobbie Klivian laughed maniacally. Tycho Celchu took holos of the explosion.

* * *

'I hate you so much, Hobbie,' said Wes as he flopped dejectedly into a lawn chair. His colleague passed him a beer from a gonk droid they'd turned into a refrigerator a few episodes back. Hobbie's expression was one of sheer, unadulterated smugness. Wes, on the other hand, looked uncharacteristically grumpy. And covered in scorch marks.

'Look on the bright side,' Hobbie replied, 'we get to terrorize Tycho next.'

At that, Janson brightened considerably. 'Oh yeah,' he said. 'Let's set up early. Force knows we need all the time we can get to catch him.'

* * *

Tycho took a moment to adjust his settings. 'Alright, friction control off, launch control on, sport mode on, and roof deployed.'

Three. Two. One.

As expected from a TIE Ugly, Tycho's speeder took off at a speed that could most conservatively be described as ludicrous. 'See, unlike Wes and Hobbie, I've done this properly,' he explained. 'Since I had no fuel needs, I also had the spare cash to tweak and improve the handling using A-wing parts I bought off a junk dealer. All that translates into an agile, nippy little machine.'

To demonstrate, he effortlessly pulled his racer into a tight, ninety-degree turn as he rounded a bend. He rocketed past the minefield and sideslipped with ease as the Tuskens opened fire on him. 'Now I wonder where Wes and Hobbie a-Oh. _Oh_.'

A massive ion bolt hit the sand to his port side, tossing up a great plume of sand. More ion bolts arced down towards him, each one fired from the SPHA-T walker Hobbie had commandeered a few kilometers ahead.

Tycho raised an eyebrow at the camera. 'Now, I can easily dodge these blasts, even with their ridiculous blast radii, because Hobbie's only one man. If he had, say, a full battery of those things, I might be a bit more worried. Wes, on the other hand...'

A T-47 airspeeder slipped in front of Tycho's TIE podracer. With ST-166 manning the front seat, Wes Janson sat in the rear gunner position.

'Oh cock,' Tycho muttered as Wes fired his tow cable. The cable's grappling hook latched onto Tycho's starboard thruster and the T-47 broke hard to port. Tycho pushed the stick to port as well, aiming for a sharp rock jutting out of the sand. It cut the cable loose and, with the track narrowing ahead, Wes and ST-166 pulled away.

'Well, that wasn't too bad,' Tycho said. 'I would have expected them to escalate the conflict a little biOH SPACE GOD, THAT WAS A PIECE OF WES' PODRACER.'

* * *

Up on a cliff, Kyle Katarn chuckled as he popped open another cold one. This gonk droid really was a clever little design, he had to say. As Tycho dodged one of Wes' engines, the Jedi Master reached out with the Force to another clump of debris and flicked it at the podracer.

'Are you sure I should be doing this?' he asked on the comm.

'Definitely,' chorused Wes and Hobbie.

* * *

Something soft and furry landed in Tycho's lap. It was a stuffed Ewok plush toy. 'Well, look at that,' he said, 'Lieutenant Kettch has landed in my l-why do I hear beeping?'

By the time Tycho registered the threat, it was too late. Wes and Hobbie had already taken holos of the ion grenade's detonation. Tycho emerged from the wreckage coughing and covered in soot.

'You utter, utter bastards,' he said.

Hobbie looked even more smug than before. 'So, Tycho, would you like to see the lap times?'

'Go on,' replied Tycho dismissively.

'I did this race in...nine minutes...fifty...eight...point three.'

'Huh,' said Wes, 'well done. You're just short of Anakin Skywalker's winning time by about five seconds.'

'Yep,' Hobbie said, 'and you two, er, didn't finish your laps because your racers got vaped.'

'And on that bombshell,' said Tycho sullenly, 'back to the studio.'


	6. 5: 10,000 Credit Starfighters, part 1

Another day, another episode, another round of applause.

'Hello again!' Wes exclaimed. 'Hello and welcome back! Now, let's talk about starships, specifically prices. The market today is filled with dozens upon dozens of options-you have regular old starfighters, heavy fighters, strike fighters, interceptors, etcetera, etcetera. If there's a job that needs doing, there's probably a ship out there for you. The problem is cost. With the recent wars, prices for ships have shot up. Thus, the producers set us up with a challenge.'

'Yes,' said Tycho, 'they gave us each ten thousand credits (of our own money) to purchase whatever starfighter we could from any dealers we could find. Then we would put our fighters through tests to determine how much comfort, utility, and functionality you can afford with just that ten grand.'

* * *

Tycho was the first to arrive at the rendezvous point, a landing pad on Coruscant. He pulled his ship into a loose arc, presenting its port side to the camera droid on the ground as he landed. As he dismounted, he slapped his fighter affectionately on its flank. It was a heavy, cross-shaped monster of a machine. It had once been painted dark green, though most of the paint had long since chipped away, exposing its rusted, battered hull to the elements. Its shape prevented it from actually touching down, so Tycho left the repulsorlifts on as he dismounted.

'This, ladies and gentlemen, is the Dianoga-class assault starfighter, courtesy of Koensayr Manufacturing. It's got a class 2 hyperdrive which doesn't work, cruise control which doesn't work, a navicomputer that doesn't work, life support which barely works, and four laser cannons and one ion cannon, which also barely work. There's also an unpleasant odor emanating from the rear of the cockpit. I'm unsure whether it's excrement or Huttese takeout, but there's not really much of a difference. All in all, this fighter cost me 9,500 quid - a bargain considering the fact that used Dianogas usually run for about twelve grand. Then again, I suppose most of those ones work properly. Now let's see what the others brought.'

Wes was the next to show up. His fighter was another oldie, spewing smoke and its underbelly covered in rust. At the top sat the vessel's only two weapons, a pair of turret-mounted laser cannons. He, too, set his starfighter to repulsorlifts, although that was more out of fear that it wouldn't start up again if he shut it off.

'No,' said Tycho, 'no, you actually bought one of _those_?'

'Yep,' said Wes proudly, 'a TIS Zeta 19 interceptor, fresh out of Clone Wars storage.'

'Wes, you know that isn't an actual _star_fighter, right?'

'What? It's perfectly spaceworthy! Or rather, it _was_. Back when it was brand new. It isn't right now, anyway, because I've got three or four hull breaches to patch up.'

Tycho looked at him incredulously. 'That thing doesn't even have shields, let alone a hyperdrive!'

'Ah, but these things cost 4,500 credits used, at most.'

'Alright, then, how much did you pay for that hunk of scrap?'

'Fifteen hundred.'

'Lies.'

Wes pulled out a datapad and scrolled down to display his receipt from the dealership. 'Nope. Fifteen hundred bucks for this thing. That leaves me with plenty of room for repairs. The dealer was also kind enough to throw in a free disposable life support tank because of how crappy it was. The engine, though, looked to be in good condition. I've also got instrument panels which don't work, a comm system that doesn't work, and two lasers which don't work.'

Tycho rolled his eyes. 'Wonderful, so I'm the only one with an actual spaceworthy ship right now. I can only hope Hobbie doesn't disappoint. Or show up in a Pinook.'

The Pinook was a pitiful civilian market starfighter made during the Rebellion era. A used model fetched a price of about 25,000 credits at most, and that was if everything was still in nearly perfect condition. Hampered by heavy regulations and restrictions, the Pinook ended up coming off the production line as an utter joke of a starship, outdone even by the slapdash Uglies found in most pirates' arsenals. Tycho once aptly described it as a Reliant Mynock speeder, only in space.

Hobbie did _not_ enter with a Pinook. He showed up in something far, far worse. Tycho and Wes tried and failed to hold in their laughter as their co-presenter dismounted.

'That's right,' Hobbie said enthusiastically, 'it's a Subpro C-73 Tracker! Two laser cannons and nothing else! Usually goes for 20,000 credits used, but I got a friend to sell it to me for one whole cred.'

Wes struggled to formulate a proper question. He was laughing too hard at the pitiful, tiny Tracker. 'How in the hell did you manage to do that?'

'Well, it wasn't too hard. The landing gear's jammed into the "deployed" position, the dealer had stripped out most of the instruments, and said friend's original fingers were still gripping the stick.'

Tycho looked into the cockpit and pulled out an empty plastic bottle. 'Looks like the pilot left more than the fingers, too.'

'Oh no, I actually need those. Those are my water bottles because the engine overheats.'

'Outstanding,' Tycho said. 'Wait, is your starboard side just entirely gone?'

'Yeah,' Hobbie said sheepishly, 'that's kind of how the guy lost his fingers. At least the cockpit mag-con field still works, so I still have some air.'

Their discussion, however, was interrupted by the arrival of a production crew member. Wes received the man's datapad and began to read aloud: '"Any starfighter worth its salt should be able to make it from your location to Public Space Dock Alpha, which is in geostationary orbit above you. You are to dock at bay Aurek-19, where you must then await further instructions."'

'Well, that shouldn't be too hard for your average fighter,' said Hobbie.

'But can _ours_ make the trip?' countered Tycho.

They looked at one another for a moment then chorused, 'Nnnnnope.'

And with that, they boarded their respective craft. Tycho was the first to depart, taking his Dianoga in a painfully lazy arc towards space, trailing flakes of paint, rust, and hull as he did so. Hobbie was next, flying with a touch more grace than Tycho's fighter. Wes, meanwhile, struggled to get his fighter to switch from repulsors to full flight mode.

'Yeah, give me a second here,' he said, flicking the toggle switch ineffectually. 'Son of a bith, this thing is worth even _less_ than the 1,500 I paid.'

He stepped out of the cockpit and cracked open the engine compartment, grumbling all the while.

'This'll be a while, viewers. Talk among yourselves for a bit. Or cut to commercial. Yeah, do that. That would be nice.'


	7. 6: 10,000 Credit Starfighters, part 2

By the time they reached Dock Alpha, Tycho's engines had sputtered into lifelessness and both Hobbie and Wes collapsed on the deck, gulping in delicious, blessed air. Taking a challenge datapad from a production team member, Tycho began to read the next phase's instructions aloud:

'"By now, you will have realized that any starfighter purchased for less than 10,000 quid is the equivalent of committing ritual suicide in the cabin of a Reliant Mynock. Using your remaining money, you are to improve your fighters in any way you see fit using the facilities provided."'

Wes, still out of breath, asked, 'Wait, didn't you spend 9,500 on yours?'

Tycho muttered an answer.

'So what can you possibly afford with the leftover 500?'

'Look, I'll think of something. I'll see you guys back here in a few hours.'

And with that, the lads set off into the station to haggle, extort, seduce, and steal their way into spaceworthiness.

* * *

Several hours later, the three had finished their repair jobs and by the end of it, they'd come out with fighters of, er, variable quality.

'Alright, Wes,' said Hobbie, 'you go first.'

Wes paused to wipe a bit of sweat from his brow. 'Well, I had 8,500 credits left over for this thing, so I had plenty of room to spare. First thing I did, I stripped off a lot of the external hull plating for scrap, which netted me an extra 1,000.'

'So basically, you can buy Tycho's fighter with the money you have right now.'

'Basically. I used the cash to pretty much overhaul my instrument panel. Replaced the fried circuit boards, added an astromech brain to substitute for a full navicom to save on money, and added a targeting computer from a Z-95. I used the rest of my money to fix the life support and splice a shield generator to my power plant.'

Hobbie nodded in approval. 'Very nice. I used mine to fix up my hull breach, first of all. Then I fixed up my life support and landing gear and added a Class 2 hyperdrive. With my remaining money, I added some basics to my instrument panel-gyroscope, a cheap navicom from an old Clone War V-wing, and status gauges, obviously. Then I spent the 200 I had left on some minor engine repairs.'

Tycho peeked into the cockpit. 'Why does your temperature gauge still say that your engine's about to catch fire?'

'Thats, uh, because it is. I've jury-rigged a water-cooling system from the cockpit that leads to the engine.'

Tycho gave Hobbie an arch look. '"Water". Sure. That's totally why you mounted the intake at crotch level.'

'Alright, smartass, what did _you_ do with your piddly 500?'

The Dianoga looked like it had been mutilated, having lost its top and bottom wings and vents, as well as a considerable amount of external plating. Wes and Hobbie looked understandably amused by Tycho's poor purchase.

'Well, uh, first off, I took those wings off and sold them for scrap to let me land like a normal person. Couldn't afford landing gear, obviously. Also sold a bit of the armor, as well as two of my lasers. That brought me up to 3,500, which I used to fix my instruments, life support, and shields.'

Wes and Hobbie clambered onto the fighter and began inspecting its innards.

'Hold on,' said Wes, 'that's not your original hyperdrive.'

Upon closer inspection, the original Class 2 had been scrapped and replaced by an InCom GBk-585 model, typically found on X-wing starfighters.

Hobbie was astounded. 'Where the hell did you find one of those? More importantly, how did you manage to buy that?'

'To be honest, I didn't buy it.'

Wes and Hobbie chorused, 'What.'

'I stole it.'

'_What?_' they repeated.

The camera zoomed out to reveal that Tycho wore clothing completely different from those he had on earlier. A flimsy paper mask of Wedge Antilles' face also hung from his belt, along with a fusion cutter, still smoking from recent use.

Outside, a man in a green CorSec flight suit complained loudly on his holocomm as he passed the Top Gear hangar. 'What do you mean, "stolen"? I swear, Whistler, I leave for five minutes and-'

Tycho hopped into his Dianoga with uncharacteristic urgency, activating his engines and donning his helmet. With deliberate slowness, a production team agent handed Wes their next datapad.

'"With your newly repaired starfighters, you are to rendezvous with ST-166 above Kothlis in the Mid Rim, where you will compete in a minor space skirmish. With your skills, you should be capable of pulling through, regardless of the lethality of your foe." Lethality?'

Hobbie coughed uncomfortably. 'W-well,' he stammered, 'they c-can't possibly try to kill us, right? This is just a show, right?'

Tycho, meanwhile, sealed his cockpit, marked the coordinates for Kothlis, and took off. At that exact moment, a very irate Corran Horn stormed into the hangar, lightsaber ignited and spouting expletives and insults regarding Tycho's status as an Imperial sleeper agent. By the time Corran readied his X-wing and sallied forth to reclaim his stolen hyperdrive, Tycho, Hobbie, and Wes had jumped to hyperspace.

* * *

After an unspecified amount of time, Hobbie was the first to exit hyperspace. He screamed like a little girl.

'Hobbie,' Wes said as he exited hyperspace, 'what the hell are yOH MY SPACE GOD! I AM SO GLAD I'M WEARING BROWN PANTS BECAUSE A BIT OF POO'S COME OUT RIGHT THEN AND THERE!'

The second Tycho entered realspace, he, too, saw what all the fuss was about.

'Wes, Hobbie, what are you tSWEET MERCIFUL FORCE!'

All three of them screamed in unison. Twenty kilometers away floated a behemoth of alusteel and laser-spewing divine wrath. Forged in the fires of Kuat Drive Yards, the very sight of it could still make even the cockiest fighter pilot fearful, and that was if said pilot was in the seat of an X-wing. Or a Y-wing. Or any other starfighter in existence that could go for more than 10,000 credits. It was the natural predator of the CR-90 corvette family, and the bane of many, many pirates, Rebel Alliance personnel, and scruffy, nerf-herding smugglers. From its steely innards spewed a horde of TIE Interceptors and Fighters. Despite its age, ships of its ilk were still the standard by which capital ships' firepower and durability were measured. It was an _Imperial-II_ Star Destroyer, and it was coming straight for them.


	8. 7: 10,000 Credit Starfighters, part 3

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* * *

Wes, Hobbie, and Tycho were still panicking when the message came in on their instrument panels. Wes stopped screaming to read it aloud.

'"As you know, it is perfectly possible to take down a Star Destroyer in less than two minutes with the correct craft and armament, and with a little bit of skill. ST-166 will now demonstrate that using a B-Wing. You will each attempt the same against the Star Destroyer, _Gravitas Shortage_, whose weapons are currently set to simulation mode. After viewing ST-166's attempt, you are to dock with _Gravitas Shortage_, where production crew members will set your weapons, shields, and systems to fit this simulated skirmish as well. You will be scored based on time. If you successfully destroy the Star Destroyer in the sim skirmish, you earn one point for every second under ST-166's time and lose one for every second over. If you are shot down, you lose a thousand." Oh. Well, alright then.'

Hobbie breathed a sigh of relief. 'Well, we're not dead space meat, then. Not literally.'

'No,' said Tycho, 'but our scores are probably going to be deep in the pits after this.'

Minutes later, another starfighter exited hyperspace behind the three presenters: a Slayn & Korpil B-wing starfighter painted a stark white, flown by none other than the show's tame racing pilot. As the B-wing entered maximum weapons range, _Gravitas Shortage_ opened fire, filling the space around it with hails of weakened green laser bolts. From its hangar bays, it began to deploy its fighter complement, all set to old Imperial specs-no shields, no life support, no hyperdrive. One such flight of TIEs attempted to intercept the B-wing, only to be 'vaped' moments later by ST-166's cannons. Dodging and weaving through the storm of laser fire, the B-wing closed in on the Star Destroyer's shield generators and opened fire. The fighter's first attack run left the starboard shield generator covered in a layer of paint from training torpedoes, while the second left the port generator in a similar state. ST-166 administered the coup de grace shortly after, taking his B-wing into a tight turn, cutting his throttle, and pelting the bridge with simulated laser fire. In the space of fifty-eight seconds, it was all over.

Tycho let out an impressed whistle. 'Bloody hell, that was a perfect run, or at least as close to it as anyone will ever get.'

'Yeah, yeah,' grumbled Wes. 'Alright, gents, let's get our fighters sorted out.'

* * *

One hour later, Janson was first on the chopping block. His fighter began ten kilometers away from the ImpStar Deuce. On his display, the countdown began. He double-checked his systems to make sure everything important was functional. Three. Two. One.

Maxing out his throttle, Wes attempted to close to maximum cannon range as the Star Destroyer's guns lit up. Of course, doing that was easier said than done.

'Now, viewers,' he explained, 'the TIS Zeta 19 is a solid craft for atmo. Decent hull armor, engines that can take you to a respectable 950 kilometers an hour in standard atmospheric conditions, a pair of forward-facing laser cannons, all built by Corporate Sector Authority members. Of course, this thing also normally requires a gunner in addition to the pilot, so I had to do some quick rewiring and reprogrammi-OH SWEET MERCIFUL GALAXY!'

He wrenched his stick to the side, barely dodging an oncoming TIE. As its wingman entered Wes' crosshairs, he pulled the trigger, disabling the TIE with a low-powered laser burst.

'Now, uh, what was I saying? Oh, right. I had to reprogram the lasers to operate from the pilot's seat. Also had to replace the original pilot's stick with the gunner's. I can do some minor targeting with the turret function, but it's like flying a BTL-S3 Y-wing without a copilot.'

Weaving through streams of laser fire, Wes made his first attack run on the Star Destroyer's starboard shield generator. System readouts told him that he'd only done minimal damage to its armor.

'And to make things worse, this thing is a CSA design! A cheap one, at that! Its engines are complete rubbish in space because dust and debris get in everywhere after a few days of flying! The handling is, quite frankly, crap, and it feels like space molasses climbing up a hill in the middle of a cold night on Hoth. And to make things worse, my lasers seem to have lost their punch because my shield generator's eating up all the power! Honestly, I have no idea why Corporate Sector Espos bother with these rickety pieces of junk when they could shell out the money for X-Wings, like what CorSec used to do! It's mind-boggl-whoa, took a bad hit there!'

* * *

Indeed, a single glancing shot from the Star Destroyer's point defense turrets had taken the little Zeta 19's shields down from full to forty-five percent. From the Star Destroyer's bridge, Hobbie and Tycho winced as they watched the laser graze the little Interceptor on a camera feed.

'Oof,' Hobbie said, 'that will hurt. You think he's got enough juice to actually recharge his shields _and _power his engines and guns?'

'Oh, I doubt that,' Tycho replied. 'See, at least our fighters were built with shields in mind. The Zeta 19 didn't have shields as standard.'

'Exactly,' Hobbie remarked. 'It's only a matter of time before he's blasted out of the void, now isn't it? At least we'll have actual survivability in space.'

'Yeah. And knowing Janson, he'll probably be yakking on about the wonders of turrets and rear gunners.'

* * *

'You see, viewers,' Wes continued, 'this fighter has what the other two don't-turrets! And as an experienced rear gunner, I, Wes Janson, will demonstrate to you the wonders of 360-degree targeting!'

Passing the Star Destroyer's command tower, Wes traversed the Zeta 19's guns, aiming them rearward and maintaining his rate of fire against the ship's shield generators. Damage readouts put him close to halfway to taking down the starboard generator, and after a mere two minutes. Outstanding. He would have kept at it, too, if the point defenses hadn't hit him directly.

'What?' Wes tapped at his display. 'Weapons and controls are-power's just gone out of my guns. What could possibl-Oh. _Oh_. Dammit.'

* * *

Hobbie and Tycho gave their comrade a space golf clap as he dismounted from his rustbucket. Wes dropped down onto the deck, removed his helmet, and accepted a bottle of water from one of the production crew.

'Negative one thousand,' Hobbie said. 'You lasted two minutes, five seconds.'

Wes grimaced. 'Well, it's not bad given the fighter I had on hand.'

'Would have been better if you'd gotten a proper spacecraft instead of an atmospheric rig,' Hobbie pointed out.

'Oh, right, like your C-73 will actually perform better than mine. That thing's _ancient_, Hobbie. It'll never survive the run.'

The argument continued for some time until Hobbie remembered that he was up next. Dragged forcibly into his cockpit, Hobbie and Wes continued their exchange until the canopy had finally sealed.

* * *

'Alright,' Hobbie said, adjusting the cockpit camera, 'let's do this. Unlike Wes, I've picked an honest, _proper_ starship, one actually cleared for void flight with the gear to prove it.'

Something beeped in the cockpit.

'Aside from that one minor hull breach. I'm leaking a little oxygen there, but I should have more than enough to live through the test. I hope.'

Three. Two. One.

'Nyargh! Ack!' Hobbie put his Tracker through a series of erratic maneuvers, corkscrewing and sideslipping to avoid the attacking TIEs and incoming lasers. 'Hurgh! Almost took a hit there, but I'm doing just fine! Although I would very much like to go home now, really! Ah! Frakking kamikaze TIE nearly sheared my starboard wing off! Are these things piloted by suicidal droids or something?_  
_

Taking his craft in a diagonal path 'above' the Destroyer's command tower, Hobbie inverted the C-73, dove, and looped back to strafe both shield generators on his attack run. Setting his lasers to dual-fire, he held down the trigger and walked his shots across the tower's length, scoring palpable hits. His attack run, however, ended with a jarring impact to his shields.

'Oh no, that's taken me down to fifty-five percent,' he deadpanned, 'whatever shall I do? Certainly not _divert discretionary power to my shield recharge with my void combat-rated power plant,_ am I right? Take that, Janson!'

Of course, the C-73's decrepit wiring and components made even that a difficult task. Power trickled in at a glacial pace, restoring shield energy at a whopping one percent every ten seconds.

'Now, that's unimpressive to you military pilots and to you modern starship enthusiasts,' Hobbie admitted, 'but back in the day, this thing in its prime could recharge its shields at about the same rate as the Z-95 Headhunter could. Well, this thing isn't in its prime. Far from it. In fact, I think I just lost another one of my armor plates.'

Hobbie veered away and decided to try a different approach, orienting his fighter so that the Star Destroyer now pointed 'down' from his point of view.

'The wonderful thing about fighting Star Destroyers is, I think, their distinct lack of rear-facing weaponry. Other than a few piddly point defense turrets, the ImpStar Deuce really doesn't have much junk in the trunk aside from its engines. Pretty normal for fighters, but a downright fatal weakness on a capital ship if used right.'

Sure enough, said weakness was exploited well enough to whittle the shield generators' hull ratings to zero, allowing Hobbie to try for a finishing blow. In the words of a certain Jedi Master, however, 'Do or do not. There is no try.' Hobbie did not. A TIE Interceptor vaped him moments after he disabled the second generator sphere.

* * *

Wes' expression was one of sheer, unadulterated smugness. The trademark smirk had been passed down the Janson line for generations, and Wes had made good use of it, much to Hobbie's chagrin.

'According to my chrono, I still lived longer than you did, dumbass.'

'Yeah, you did. Two minutes, ten.'

Hobbie whooped half-heartedly. 'Alright, Tycho, you're up next.'

* * *

In his Dianoga's cockpit, Tycho hummed happily, carefully adjusting his air conditioning vents so they were all perfectly aligned. 'As you can tell, ladies and gentlemen, I've done this properly. The key to taking down a Star Destroyer is _not_ speed or a small target profile or omnidirectional targeting or whatever the hell a C-73 Tracker has. The B-Wing was designed to take down capital ships and it's got none of those. What it _does_ have is decent maneuverability and very good durability, something my fighter has as well. The Dianoga has acceleration and a turning radius about equal to those of a Y-wing, though it does have weaker shields, armor, and weapons. In fact, it was actually considered rather overpowered for a non-military starfighter, which is why you often saw so many of these in pirate and mercenary hangars in the last days of the Old Republic. All that because it was built by Koensayr Manufacturing, the same blokes responsible for the venerable Y-wing line and-'

A TIE zipped past his cockpit.

'Oh, bloody hell, how long has the timer been going?'

'Fifteen seconds,' said Wes on the comm.

'Alright, chaps, let's do this for good old Koensayr.'

Setting his throttle to full, Tycho focused discretionary power on his shields and performed evasive maneuvers, twitching the control stick ever so minutely to maintain his targeting brackets' position on the shield generators.

'Unfortunately,' Tycho said, utterly calm, 'since this _was_ built by Koensayr, its controls still feel quite sluggish. I've set my stick to max sensitivity and it takes about as long to respond to stimuli as Wes after a Spacey's take-out run. There's also the fact that its firepower is not quite up to snuff, as I'd taken out two of my laser cannons and completely lack explosive ordnance. If you've flown an A-wing or a TIE before, chances are that you'd probably rather take on the galaxy in a Reliant Mynock than fly something from Koensayr, and I don't blame you. It responds so damn _slowly _that in the time it takes to turn this thing ninety degrees, I could have booked a shuttle to Coruscant, finished a twelve-course meal, and watched a full run of _Springtime for Palpatine_.'

Despite the ship's shortcomings, the old Alderaanian still managed to avoid all but a few glancing hits, tanking blows to his shields that would have disqualified Wes and Hobbie many times over. His stripped-down armament proved to be only a minor handicap as he slowly, leisurely ran laser fire down the command tower's length, disabling the shield generators on his third attack run. At three minutes, Tycho veered away from the Destroyer's aft and coasted in a wide arc back towards _Gravitas Shortage_'s fore end to fire at the bridge. Just before his hull readout hit zero, Tycho landed the killing shot.

* * *

When Tycho returned to the Star Destroyer's hangar, he came out singing.

'_Aaand now it's Springtime for Emprah and Coruscant_

_Jundland's a fun land once more!_

_Springtime for Emprah and Coruscant_

_Watch out, Jedi, we're going on tour!'_

Hobbie and Wes looked at the camera droid with abject horror.

'Horton Salm,' Wes said, 'if you're watching this, _we do not know this man and have never known him.'_

_'Yes,'_ added Hobbie, 'unlike that, er, that guy, we aren't Imperial agents in disguise.'

Tycho rolled his eyes. 'Alright, let's get on with it. How did I do?'

'Three minutes...ten seconds,' Hobbie said. 'Negative one hundred thirty-two points in all.'

'Oh, wonderful,' Tycho said, surprised that he'd done so well in such a sluggish craft.

'And on that bombshell,' Hobbie exclaimed, 'back to the studio!'

* * *

Thunderous applause, catcalls, and jeers from the audience greeted the intermission in the day's antics. Wes, crisp and clean in business casual, stood in front of the holoprojector that had just aired the Star Destroyer battle.

'But before we continue with this episode's silliness,' said Wes, 'it's time for our Star in a Reasonably Priced Fighter. Tonight's Star has served since the days of the old Rebellion, back when our Galactic Alliance was merely a little X-Wing Alliance of sorts, still fighting to restore the Republic. In fact, he was even on the crew of the _Millennium Falcon_ during the Battle of Endor!'

'Is it Lando Calrissian?' Hobbie asked from the edge of the crowd.

'Nope.'

'Airen Cracken?' queried Tycho.

'Nope. I'll give you a hint. He's the current CEO of a very successful transport service called Twin Suns.'

Silence. Appropriate, really, given the guest's rather reticent nature.

Wes put on his trademark smirk yet again. 'Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome Mister Ace Azzameen!'


End file.
